Horror in the kitchen

Horrified is the only word that can sum it up. I really didn't want to go into the kitchen because I could hear all the commotion. But... my desire for chocolate soymilk won the battle.

As I walked into the kitchen I saw Francis in her gym clothes making herself some dinner, and Grant sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of Seagram's and Seven Up, watching American Idol.

Grant is a 37 year old male.

"Drinking on a Tuesday night?" I inquired.

"Well [some female pop-star] is on tonight, and if I don't have a drink I think I'll explode! I don't normally watch American Idol, but I looooove her!."

"Who?" I needed a repeat, but I still can't remember.

"You don't know who she is??" He said, aghast, and then started to belt out one of her songs - which, by the way, sounds like some teeny bopper pop crap, like Britney Spears or something.

"Um... no." I said.

"Get out! You don't know that song?? Get out!"

Oh, I so wanted to get out.

"I'm not into pop music." Lameass.

"C'mon!"

"Dude - I don't have a radio. I'm not a part of pop culture." Because I have much better taste than that, Mr. Pabst Blue Ribbon drinkin, t.v. dinner eatin, baseball hat wearin, mini truck drivin, baboon.

To which he replied, "C'mon! You're a... SUBCULTURE!"

I grabbed my soymilk and got the F out of there before he started singing again. It was bad enough that every time she came onto the screen he had to screech "Oh, I love you!" like a pubescent 13 year old.

Damn chocolate soymilk...